You Need it More than Me
by AppleCoreCandyBox
Summary: I laugh, I smile, I’m the epitome of happiness, shouldn’t that be enough? Bend over backwards to make sure they have nothing to worry about. [for Angelfeatherwriter, oneshot]


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What is insanity, other than a broken sanity?

What is hate, other than love stemmed from a broken heart?

What is a ghost, other than our memories trying not to forget?

What is pain, other than an extreme ecstasy- a high?

What is a blade, other than the perfect way to not kill yourself- a release?

What is a broken heart, other than what the heart was to begin with?

What…what am I?

Who is _me_, other than a broken being behind a mask?

What am I…who is me?

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I laugh, I smile, I'm the epitome of happiness…shouldn't that be enough?

Bend over backwards to make sure they have nothing to worry about. To reassure them that this smile is true, real, not fake. They don't know that it isn't, but that's ok, I can deal with it in front of them.

But when I'm alone, it's a whole other story.

Rip out my hair in chunks until my skull bleeds. Slam my fist into the walls until I hear the bones crack, sometimes I don't stop until I can see my knuckles tear right through my skin. Hit myself in the face hard enough that I knock out teeth. Slam my hands and feet into doors until they're bent in odd directions. Mash my teeth until my jaw is shut tight in an agonizing cramp.

And still sometimes it's not enough.

Oh, you're wondering how people aren't able to see all the things I've done, right?

I'll crack my bones back in place, super glue my teeth back in their holes, and shove my knuckles bones back underneath my skin, and let the stupid fox have his way with it, as he always does.

And then the next morning I wake up, let the smile creep on my face and head out into the world.

Rinse and repeat.

Everyday monotone anger so great I break my own bones to calm it, sooth its wrath. To make sure it doesn't erupt on the world, shower it darkly with blood and bits of body.

I don't want that to happen, but I know it eventually will.

And then one day, I found this…**thing**.

Sitting by the side of the dirt road, a traveler was playing this nasty, beat up old violin. I mean, the thing wasn't much at all to look at, but the music…the music…

It was gorgeous.

And even though the guy wasn't saying a word, I could feel his pain in the music. Slow and steady, the sound of an old wound to the heart. It sounded like a pain that had grown old and had finally scabbed over. The strings let loose there beautifully shrill song, crying with each note that played across them as I stared quietly.

_Every step I've taken is a step I've come to regret_

_Every song I've sung is now one that I neglect_

_My insanity's turned its self inside out_

_But all in all its still here_

I could hear it. His song was singing its self even without his voice; bittersweet and nostalgic, longing and yet hopeful. Hopeful for what is what I'm not sure of yet.

_Hate is nothing but a sick sort of love_

_While love is our sick sort of hope_

_Pain is the high that life gives you_

_While life is the pain that fails you_

And that was when he stopped, kind of abruptly, and stared at me.

"What do you need kid?"

I'm quiet, thinking upon his words before speaking.

"Can you teach me?"

He smiled and let this chuckle like thing escape from his throat.

"Don't need to…"

Placing the beat up violin back into its case, he stood up and plopped it into my hands. I knew I must have looked really fucking confused by then, especially when he started walking away.

"What the hell am I supposed to do with it?" I yelled at his retreating back

He turned back to face me, this really weird, knowing smile falling across his face.

"Don't worry, you'll be able to play it, trust me."

"Don't you need it?" I asked.

He shook his head at that, saying,

"You need it more than I do kid."

And he walked on.

Staring at the beat up leather case, I carried it home, holding it to my chest like it was the greatest secret ever.

Now that I think about it…I haven't seen that man since.

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That guy, I think he was sort of right about me not having to be taught how to play this _particular _violin.

Day after I got it, when I was ready to let that suppressed rage overflow, I didn't go directly into breaking myself. First thing I did when I got home was open that damn case, and take out the beat up thing and its bow.

It was stupid to think it, but I couldn't help but feel that I'd seen the thing before, that I'd played it once upon a time. The strings felt familiar, the wood of the body like an old friend I'd almost forgotten. The bow felt natural in my right hand, the chipped wood of the body nestled under the left side of my neck like it belonged there since my birth.

At first I played those strings without much grace, messing up right and left and nearly fumbling over my own fingers on the strings.

But I continued on, the interruptions of my mistakes becoming fewer and father in between, until there were none at all. I know it sounds stupid, but I swear that the more emotions I felt, the better the music sounded. The beat of the music was harsh and strong, filled with my bitterness and depression. I poured everything into those strings, poured my rage and regret and everything else that would usually make me haunted enough that I'd break my own bones.

I would even go so far as to say I poured my very soul into those strings that night. Their beautiful voice was resounded against the walls of my apartment, echoing their lonely, if not bitter, words.

_I'm not really quite what I look_

_But I wouldn't mind a trade_

_Turn fact into fiction_

_I'd love to be the person you see today_

I…I think I may know why this thing feels so natural to play. I don't know where the hell this hypothesis came from, but it's all I have to go on. This silly little instrument is me and I am it.

Both beaten and sort of ugly looking, but I guess if you play either of us the right way what we really look like isn't so ugly after all, now is it?

_Even if you see me arguing it's not my voice speaking_

_That laughter and those smiles are not my own _

_The why of it all is something I can't answer_

_I hope to you don't ask me if I'd prefer death_

_For the answer would be a muted yes_

And you know, after all of that singing and all of that pouring, I couldn't help but feel happy; happier than I had in a long, long, long while. And it wasn't until I saw my face in the bathroom mirror the next morning that I was able to guess by the dry tear marks and my red eyes that I must have been so happy I cried.

And then, after that day, I started doing a few things I never thought I would ever be able to do.

I didn't smile when all I wanted to do was frown. I didn't force myself to be loud when I felt like being quiet. I didn't laugh when I felt like screaming. I didn't grin and bear it. I cried when I needed to, even in front of my friends.

I let my guard down.

Sure, it scared my friends, but that was only because they were sort of shocked by all my astronomical changes. They had thought someone had done something bad to me, something that would make me so quiet. But then one by one they began to understand, especially when I played that violin. With it, I didn't need to try and put my feelings into simple-minded words that always just barley scratched the surface of what they were explaining; the music did it for me.

And then sooner than I'd ever hoped for, things started evening out.

I could smile without force. I laughed genuinely. I was honestly loud when I wanted to be and quiet when I didn't have a thing to say.

I let my friends in, I let them see who I was. Not a single lie this time, no stupid mask to try and protect myself. And I couldn't have been happier that I had let them in, that I'd let them see who and what I was.

And to think it was all thanks to a beat up piece of wood for an instrument.

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Years later, I saw a boy sitting on a bench in the middle of a park, all alone. Everything about his appearance told me he wasn't happy with anything. Bags under his eyes, bony shoulders, and suspicious scarring on his arms told me a very bitter story. So, I did what that stranger had done for me so many years ago.

I played my song for him; let him hear what this violin could do, even if he didn't know that was what I was doing.

"Can you teach me?" he asked; his sad eyes full of a small hope that I was glad to see.

My lips curled upwards in a smile as I spoke

"Don't need to…"

Putting the violin back in its case, I gently shoved it into his hands, amused by the look he gave me.

"What am I supposed to do with it…don't you need it?" He called after me as I left the park.

"Don't worry kid; you'll be able to play it! And I think you need it more than I do!" I say, remembering that my conversation with the stranger so long ago had been almost one and the same as the one I had just finished.

That boy really did need it more than I do anymore.

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This of course is for Angelfeatherwriter, who happened to be my 69th reviewer for my fic "Even when He Smiles"…why I decided to give a 'prize' to the 69th reviewer is for you to hopefully figure out and for me to see if you get it right…

Hope you liked it!


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